


Hands

by Shinyshinx



Category: South Park
Genre: Child Abuse, Drug Addiction, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-24 20:26:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16647194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shinyshinx/pseuds/Shinyshinx
Summary: tweek can't live like this forever.





	Hands

**Author's Note:**

> HOO this took a long ass time but im really proud of the results! tweek and kenny are one of my all time favorite ships, and tweek is such a fuckin sad character, ive really wanted to explore the effects of his abuse and all that meth. so here's what ive got. pls let me know what u think!
> 
> haha i might have gotten meth mixed up w coke but w/e it's too late now

Your cup shakes in your hands.

 

You can’t stand the taste of black coffee. Even coffee that isn’t Tweek Bro’s is too bitter for you, special ingredient notwithstanding.

You don’t know how your customers don’t notice it. Their cups usually have more.

 

You set it down. Pick pick pick at the top of the sugar packet until the flimsy paper peels back, and sprinkle it into your drink alongside the other two packets, watch as the sugar hits the top and disappears into its milky brown body. Your fingers struggle with your spoon like it weighs far more than it does; You drop it once, twice, curse. Your hands don’t feel like they belong to you, today.

 

You look them over. Practically blue from the veins underneath. Thin. Bruised and gnawed on. Two ugly, skeletal spiders.

They used to look nicer, you think, when they were being held.

 

You haven’t held anyone’s hand since you were ten. You and Craig were ‘dating’ the way children do; the playground way. Felt like such serious business at the time. He was sweet. Knew you were panicking before you did, calmed you down in his special way. You still wonder what spurred him onto that flat-toned break up outside the front of the school one frosty morning, casual as anything, like it was truly pretend-you cried over it for a few days. Eventually, your hurt faded into neutrality between the two of you, and life carried on. It was for the best. You had too much shit to deal with at the shop even then.

 

“Tweek,” Rings your father’s smooth, television voice, from the front of the store. The sound of it makes you want to rip his throat out. “You have a delivery to run.”

 

You nod, then realize he can’t see it from here, and fumble for a loud sound of confirmation-sometimes you just can’t make it to real words. You abandon your coffee at the table, and make your way to the back to grab the bag. It’s heavy in your ugly spidery palms.

 

\-  - -

 

You’ve walked this path to this house dozens and dozens of times, far more than you can count, since you were first capable of gripping onto the bag and waddling it down on your own. You’ve known the McCormick’s equally as long. Karen used to run to say hello when you came, pigtails bouncing, and even at your lowest, she’d pry a smile out of you.

Kenny, too, seemed to have something about him, something that had a neutralizing and calming effect on you. Sometimes he’d answer the phone instead of his parents when you had to make calls about orders for your father(for Special Ingredients, he’d said), and you’d talk for a little while: snippets of things, about his life, his friends. You always thought they were kind of pricks-you still have no idea if Miss Choksondik’s sudden resignation in elementary school was more your fault or theirs-but, he liked them enough to show up to their usual bus stop every day, so you listened. He’d ask about Craig and your music lessons and legos. Usually, this was about the time his father would take the phone from him abruptly, and his muffled and gentle voice would be swapped for Stuart’s angry, violent barking, instantly raising your stress levels up to unbearable points. You’re almost as terrified of Kenny’s parents as you are your own.

 

Aside from these times when you were coming to their house with your deliveries, however, you didn’t leave your respective social circles when you were still in school. By now, your circle has split up and departed for college. You are all that’s left.

 

At least seeing him drifting inside the living room windows as you approach the rundown house confirms you aren’t the only one who’s been left to succumb to your small town role. Stuart’s car isn’t in the driveway. You came at a good time. You don’t know what possesses you to wave to Kenny, but you do; he peers out at you with his bright blue eyes and waves back. His hands are covered in ace bandages.

 

You let your eyes drift on him, a moment, too tall for the room he’s in, beloved jacket far too short in the sleeves and even riding up his torso when zipped up the way it was, and then you scurry past the house to the shed out in the back.

 

Your transaction is painful as usual. They are too loud. They yell to talk to each other. They yell to talk to you. They trade you paper bags. Take it, they insist, use a little, get your nose dirty. You never take it straight, you tell them, like you’ve said hundreds of times before. They jeer at you. You trip over your own feet getting away after what feels like centuries but can’t be more than five minutes, and hear their laughter behind you. The usual.

 

What’s unusual is that this time, while you were out back, Kenny had come outside. There aren’t street lights on this side of the train tracks and his face is only illuminated by moonlight, making him look ghoulish and ethereal.

 

“Hey.” His voice is what you’d imagine a cat’s purr in a human tongue would be, a sharp contrast to his imposing outline-it makes your anxiety dissipate like he’d just cast a spell on you. Your shoulders slump and you slow your frantic pace to a walk.

 

“Hi, Kenny.” You have to look up to see him properly-he’s got another head on you, at least. “How are things?”

 

“The same.” His smile is easygoing. “What’s up with you? Are you going to study anywhere?”

 

“Ha, I wish--no. I’m just, gonna work at the shop, for now.” You’re going to work at the shop forever and you know it. Your stomach churns. Suddenly, it makes you want to cry. “Figure out a plan as I go, I guess, you know.”

“Still working those crazy hours?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m over at City Wok.” He scuffs his boot against the ground and pauses, just for a moment. “‘M gonna save for Karen to leave before I bother focusing on myself.”

Your heart twists painfully. He sounds too casual about his future, flippant. You know this is how people sound when they don’t expect to live to thirty. You are sure you sound the same way.  
  
You aren’t sure what to say-there’s an awkward pause.  
  
“What happened to your hands?” You try tentatively. He looks down at the bandages and shrugs.

 

“Put ‘em through the wall. Both at once.”  
  
“ _Shit_ , dude.”

“Ha. No big deal, I’ve had worse. I only broke my pinkies and rings.”  
  
You think he’s very cool. You don’t have much of a pain tolerance. “I’ve done something like that.” He tilts his head. “I mean, to my hands. I’ve almost broke all my knuckles from popping them too much before.”  
In fact, the only thing that had stopped you from intentionally doing so was how much passive-aggressive trouble it would have thrown you into for months afterward. The recovery time off work would cost too far too much. You’d forced yourself to stop before it could happen, but sometimes you gaze at your hands, and...the temptation is there, but they’d _know_ , somehow, that you’d done it on purpose. You wouldn’t dare.

 

You can’t tell if he’s put off by this knowledge of your self-destructive tendencies or almost impressed. Was that oversharing?

 

“Hardcore.” You think this means the latter. Kenny takes a step towards you, suddenly, his bandaged hands moving to take yours-in a matter of seconds, your breath is knocked out of you, every muscle in your body tense like a frightened rabbit as you watch him with eyes wide in confusion. You stand perfectly still. He runs his thumbs over your knuckles; knobbly, covered in bite marks. You want to yank them back, shrink back with shame, but you can’t move.

 

He’s silent, which does nothing to slow the pounding of your heart in your ears. What is he doing?

 

He only touches you for a moment before letting your hands go and stepping back from you, far too casually for what he just did. You hadn’t realized how touch starved you’ve been-you’re trembling under his lazy, yet all too observant gaze.

You don’t know what to do. You can’t bring words up-all that comes out is noise. “Augh!?” Your arms fly to wrap around yourself protectively. Seeing your reaction, his expression shifts to concern, tucking his guilty hands into his pockets. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to spook you.”

Something in your head feels like it’s short circuiting and all you want is for this boy to touch you again. It’s still a few moments of letting the icy air cloud in front of you in frantic little breaths before you can talk again. “It’s okay.” Speaking through the lump in your throat feels like choking on molasses. You need to get out of here. “I should, get back, before it gets any darker.” Your voice is lowered to a mumble.

“Yeah.” He looks regretful, a little hurt, and you wish, not for the first time, that you weren’t like _this_. He hasn’t done anything wrong. Just the opposite, in fact, but you have no idea how to articulate that to him. As you hurry over to the path, you feel his eyes on your back, and you turn on your heel in a last ditch attempt to save this conversation-you’re overreacting and you know it, dammit, you have to say something.

 

“Call me?”

 

He blinks-then his face splits into a grin, and he laughs, not unkindly.  
  
“Absolutely. See ya’ around, Tweek.”

 

The pounding of your heartbeat is just as loud in your ears as it was before, but it brings a new feeling alongside the all familiar anxiety; butterflies in your stomach, a breathlessness that puts an extra bounce in your step. You don’t know how you got so out of control of yourself that a simple touch of your hands could have you reeling this violently-it’s total emotional whiplash.

 

He’s gonna call you! Jesus fucking christ.

 

As you crawl into bed that night, you realize you haven’t spoken to anyone your age since you graduated last year-you text Craig and the gang, of course, but they no longer really count. You haven’t spoken to a person-in the flesh-that wasn’t your parents, or a customer, in a full year. This knowledge leaves you with a pain in your chest so great that you can’t breathe. Kenny was the first person who’d wanted to have a conversation with you in that entire time frame.

 

You’d anticipated being completely forgotten about. Becoming a permanent fixture of this awful town and fading out of your friend’s thoughts. But apparently, one person still remembers you.

 

\- - -

 

You button your shirt at five thirty in the morning the next day with shaking hands.They’re askew and not done properly when you’re finished, and you’re too frazzled to notice. The butterflies from the night before are back in full force, and your head is spinning.

You don’t know how your previous neutral-positive opinion of Kenny has been jarringly thrown into something so much more overwhelming and breathtaking in the course of talking to him for less than ten minutes on a frigid September night. You aren’t sure if you want to. You think you may be overthinking this quite a bit.

 

You can’t help it, though. The last year hasn’t been pleasant for you. In between work, you’ve stared sadly at the lego sets on your shelf, the dozens of unfinished drawings and models scattered around your room, each untouched since being started and only reminding you that everything you used to enjoy does nothing for you now. You’re depressed. You’re cynical and lethargic. Everyday, you go to work, and you come home and are too tired to do anything; You fall into bed hating yourself, and you don’t sleep, and then you start the process over the next day.

 

Kenny is something different. He’s breathed a little life into you, running his thumbs over your knuckles as though the action were magic, making your long-forgotten will flicker and spark with so little effort on his part.

Terrifying. Breathtaking. You need to get ahold of yourself.

 

You don’t, not by the time work’s started. You are distracted all morning. Luckily, you’ve done this for so long that it comes as naturally as breathing, your unceasing preparations for the early-morning regulars methodical and thoughtless. The store is almost always unreasonably busy-you are the only coffee shop in town, after Harbucks closed, and your ingredients make you popular. Since you’ve been out of school, you’re also the only staff member; your parents only come by to empty the register and mix the meth. You don’t blink at the waves of customers that come in before their own jobs begin, grumpy and impatient. The rush starts at six when you open and lasts until about twelve thirty in the afternoon.

 

Once the crowd peeters out, the day becomes quiet, with only the occasional straggler. This is your favorite part of the day. The stress and overstimulation comes to a stop and all you have to focus on is kneading dough, mixing sugar and flour, setting out blocks of butter to soften, and it’s the only time in your life you feel truly calm. This is your meditation.

 

Your parents don’t mind the hobby for the profit it puts out. You’re a good baker.

 

The bell above the front door rings and pulls you out of the trance kneading the day’s bread has lulled you into. You’re annoyed, until you see who it is.

This is the first time Kenny’s come in. He’s told you before he doesn't drink coffee. What’s he doing here?

“Kenny.” You hope your voice doesn’t betray your surprise. “Hi, er. What can I get you?”  
  
“Grande mocha and a slice of that strawberry cake, please.” His mouth is covered by his jacket, as always, but his smile reaches his eyes. You smile back. “Cool, I’ll bring it out to you once it’s finished.” Normally, you just yell a name out in your screechy bird voice and leave the cup out on the countertop, but you want an excuse to talk to him.

 

You have to dig through the very back to find grounds you’ve pre-made for friends. You keep them hidden, because your parents would be furious you weren’t drugging up Token and Clyde and Jimmy like you were everyone else in town. As if it’s not bad enough you have to do it to strangers.

 

While the coffee brews, you get out a dish for his slice of cake, taking a second to get him a little extra whipped cream from the fridge. This is how flirting works, right?

 

He thanks you when you bring his food out to him, and you hover awkwardly, wanting to say something but not knowing where to start. He watches you with gentle amusement until you give up and depart to get your hands sunk back into the bread dough waiting on the counter. You wish you had more social finesse. You don’t know what anyone is thinking about you at any given time and that’s terrifying. Kenny buzzes around your brain yet again, but after the soothing repetition of working the dough for a few hours, he fades to the back of your mind. You don’t notice he hasn’t left until the bread is long done, and closing time at 7pm has crept upon you.

 

“Have you, just, been here all day?” you ask when he strolls up to you, casual as anything. The corners of his eyes crease with his grinning, but he just shrugs at you.

“Need help closing?”

 

This kid is a fucking enigma.

 

You hand him a dish rag and he goes to wipe down tables while you take the keys to the front to lock up shop. Your closing routine is comforting, but the work is done a lot faster when it’s split between two people; he starts the dishwasher and sweeps the lobby while you make sure the back and kitchen are locked, clean, and all the machines are off. It’s done in twenty minutes, and you walk to the front of the store together. When you get outside, he loops his arm through yours. “Let’s go some place.”

 

“Yeah,” You reply, breathlessly.

You aren’t going to be home at the normal time, but you don’t care.

 

You go to see a movie. It feels like a date, but you’re too scared to ask. It’s okay, though, because he takes your hand afterwards, leads you to a secluded spot in the woods behind his house to sit together with a joint, staring up at the sky from under dozens of criss crossing branches. He listens as you spill your guts about your feelings, pets your hair when you choke up, tucks you under the crook of his arm. You haven’t felt listened to in a long time.

 

His lips are soft and chapped against yours, kisses practiced and confident. You fumble. This isn’t your first kiss, but it sure as fuck feels like it. You cling onto him like a lifeline. When you finally, finally find some confidence, your kisses are suddenly harsh and too rough, trembling hands holding onto his too-short sleeves far too tightly, but he only chuckles in surprise and matches your intensity.

 

It’s romantic, being out here, and his hands up your shirt, along your spine-fuck, just the _touching_ is enough, you can’t get enough of him, you haven’t felt wanted in  _so long._ Each time you waiver and second guess yourself, his soft hums and gentle noises coax you back into long kisses. It’s harsh and focused and you aren’t gentle with him, but it’s slow, too; neither of you reach to get your jeans down, just tug each other closer, bite a little harder, grab at each other’s hair. It lasts minutes and hours all at once. You’re panting and drooling by the time you break apart.

 

“Wanna go further?” He asks, and you shake your head. It doesn’t fill you with guilt to tell him no like it does for other people. He locks his hands behind your head and tugs you to the forest floor, and your kisses get more gentle. Your attention turns to feeling him up, how the muscles contract under your hands, the way his eyelashes flutter and he looks up to you with those fucking beautiful eyes, half-lidded. The way he bites his lip when your fingertips ghost up his sides. He’s the hottest thing you think you’ve ever seen.

 

You can’t stop staring at him even after you’ve caught your breath, still underneath you, arms sprawled out above his head. He holds your eye contact and leans into your hand when you stroke his hair. Your throat’s twisted up and you can’t talk, but for once, it’s okay, because he doesn’t seem to need you to.

 

He holds your hand the whole path home. The light is on in the living room.

 

He squeezes with his three good fingers. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kept you out so late. You’re going to be in trouble, aren’t you?”  
  
“It’s okay.” Your voice is calm as you gaze at him. “They can’t get to me right now.”

 

\- - -

 

You are only allowed to go three places after missing curfew; work, home, and deliveries to Kenny’s. Luckily, they hadn’t forbidden you from seeing him, and when he had time off, he’d sit in your store for hours, chasing off the dark shadows that danced at the edge of your vision, helping you lock up. Sometimes you’d close early and lay him over a countertop, table, anything within reach, really, and kiss him until you’re both panting; you’d get a little further than the last time, but you haven’t fucked. You can’t. You just don’t have the confidence. He said that it was okay.

Your overcooked, anxious mind won’t let you believe him entirely when he says that, but he still comes to you, even when there are others he could spend time with(Butters hasn’t managed to get out from under his family’s thumb just yet, either). You’re grateful.

 

The more you try to enjoy yourself, however, the more unbearable your parents become. It takes them little time to find out about Kenny. It’s like every moment of your personal life has to be under their scrutiny at all times, or you’ve somehow failed them as a child.

 

They rip you away from him all too soon, and it only takes that long for things to start spiralling.

 

You can only handle about three days of pretending everything is fine, and then you’re crying behind the countertop and overworking every bone in your body trying to keep yourself distracted. It’s not _fair_. You used to be allowed to have friends, when the fuck did that change? Why aren’t you allowed to talk to him? Why are you so afraid to demand answers?

 

You cannot live your entire fucking life like this.

 

Your hands are trembling so bad when you go to close that night that the keys don’t make it into the lock. You are too emotional to care. The crushing reality of it all, the aching, the utter lack of alternatives, not having any idea what to do or where to go or how to begin going about an escape-it doesn’t matter that you’re old enough to be independent, you don’t know _how_. It’s all hitting you at once. You practically throw the closing sign against the window and run to the back.

 

You need more than a fucking coffee.

 

You head straight for the bag of white powder in the back and scoop up a massive handful. Then you shove your face into your trembling hands, and inhale.

 

The first barely does anything, the shit’s so ingrained into your system already, so you do it again. And again. Your nose is burning and your face and hands are covered in fine white dust when you start to cry, shaking there on the floor for how knows how long-time begins to warp and speed up, your little hummingbird-sized heart pounding so hard in your chest you’re worried it’s going to burst out of you. You try to stand up.

 

The room spins. This is becoming more and more of a bad idea by the second. Is your heart supposed to be racing this fast?

 

You make it out of the back only to slump over the front counter, hands clawing uselessly at the stone while your legs spread out into an odd split as they buckle under your weight. You can’t pull yourself up; your arms aren’t listening anymore, and you go slipping down to the floor, vision swimming. You feel your head slam into the countertop as you drop downwards, but don’t register any pain, not even when your twiggy little body hits the hardwood floor; at this point, you don’t think you’re breathing anymore, and your vision has spotted out completely, though you know your eyes are still open.

 

You feel things on your skin, bugs, insects, fat, ugly things, crawling and squirming against you and burrowing into your flesh and you try to scream, but they pour into your mouth, and you can feel them still wriggling down into your throat when you black out.

 

\- - -

 

You come to in a hospital.

 

You don’t remember squat. There’s an IV drip hooked up in your arm. There are also voices, from somewhere you can’t quite pinpoint. You recognize one of the voices almost immediately-it’s deeper than you’re used to, and frustrated, but undeniable.

 

“Mysterion, tell us more-”  
“Is there anything you can disclose about the case?”  
“Mysterion, are you working with the police or against them--”

_Mysterion, Mysterion, Mysterion!_

 

The voice rises above the rest, calm and stern.

 

“There is no information I am going to be publicly disclosing at this time. I will be cooperating with the police, but that’s all I’m going to tell you. Now, everyone get the hell out, this is a hospital and you’re crowding it. The people here are trying to rest.”

 

Things are eventually quiet.

 

You can barely keep your eyes open, and you stop trying to. The door opens and a person approaches.

“Tweek, you fucking idiot, what were you thinking?” He sighs. It’s not really the first thing you were expecting to hear. You don’t know what he’s talking about. You’re really tired. You grumble, try to move, and end up just twitching helplessly. You feel a cool glove on your forehead.

“Hey.” The voice turns sweet and soft. “You’re safe now.” Fingers card through your hair, one, two, three. You still. “I’ll get you out of this mess.”

 

You don’t know the mess he’s referring to.

 

\- - -

 

The next time you come to, you stay awake, and slowly, you piece together memories of the bag in the back room. The nurses make you nervous. No one will bring you your phone, and they dodge your questions. You fucking hate hospitals.

 

Then your room is suddenly full of people, after three days of uncomfortable silence.

Clyde practically throws himself across your lap, crushing you in his arms and knocking the breath out of you when he squeezes. “ _Tweek_!  You’re okay, holy shit.” his eyes are wide and watery when he pulls back, hands moving to grip your shoulders as you blink at him. “We were really fucking worried, dude, we heard about everything going on and came as soon as we could.”  
  
You peer around him. Jimmy, Token, and Craig had come with him to see you. It makes you choke up, so you hug Clyde back as tight as you can, and he rubs your spine through your hospital gown comfortingly. He always gives the best hugs.

“Wow,” You croak. Tears spring to your eyes as soon as Clyde detaches and stands beside the bed; you can’t help it. It’s too easy to forget you take up space in other people’s heads. “Thank you, guys. But what the fuck is, eurgh, going on?”

 

They exchange looks. “You mean you don’t know?” Token takes a seat on the edge of your bed. “Your parents are in prison for life. They’ve been accused of child abuse and endangerment, and distribution of a controlled substance. From the looks of it, the court isn’t going to be taking their side. There was way too much in that bag for anyone to overlook, and they found even more when they searched the store for evidence.” you’re dumbfounded-you gape at him.

“ _What_?”

“You don’t have to work for them anymore.” Token puts his hand over yours and smiles. Your brain is five steps behind in processing the information you’ve just heard, but you squeeze his back.

You look at each of the faces in front of you. None of them seem upset about you losing contact with them, just concerned.

The people who have ruined your life for so many years are gone.

 

The tears come before the words. Clyde takes one look at your sniffling and starts up too. Craig is straight faced, but he sits down on the bed beside Token, and Jimmy rests his chin on top of your head when the others ease you into their arms, all reassuring coos and gentle voices.

 

“Y-y-you’ve been through a lot, b-b-bud.”  
“We’re going to stay in town until this whole thing blows over.” Chimes Craig. You sob and hold tighter.

“Deep breaths! We’re here for you, man.”

You sob until there’s nothing left to empty out of you. They listen. They hug you until you gently nudge them away and dab at your eyes, and then they joke around to cheer you up, bring you lunch from the cafeteria. They stay for a good few hours.

 

Things feel good. The worst people in your life are locked away. You think you can heal.

 

\-  - -

 

Your next visitor is unexpected, and comes with less fortunate news.

 

The detox is taking its toll on you by now. Every ugly detail about yourself that you’d been meticulously hiding, from the skin hanging off your bones and thin thin hair that comes out of your scalp in clumps to the rotten color of your teeth, are in plain sight, and you feel nothing but shame. Shame and fire. You’re fucking _starving_  for a fix. Your nurse tried to stop you at four coffees, but as soon as she witnessed the violent tantrum that came over you, she swapped out with someone and your new attendant got you two more. They aren’t helping-you didn’t think they would, but you gulp them down fast enough to scald your tongue anyway.

 

Kyle Broflovski enters the room when you’re chugging down your sixth cup.

“Good, you’re awake!” He pipes, as if he isn’t watching you choke on boiling hot coffee like a ravenous animal and this is a casual conversation. You stare at him blankly.  
  
“What are you doing here?” You don’t have the patience or the energy to sound anything but flat. Right now, with him in your space, seeing you looking this pathetic and vulnerable-you kind of hate him.  
“Figured you’d be in a bad mood. I’ll keep it short.” He’s in a suit and tie. His briefcase is put up on your bed, top open.

“You figured I’d be in a bad mood, after a meth overdose? No! Nothing but sunshine and fucking flowers over here! I just love sitting in a bed all day hallucinating!” You’re full of piss and vinegar. He waves a dismissive hand.

 

“I know, Tweek, I’m not here to agitate you.”  
“Then why _are_ you here?”  
“I’m your lawyer.”

You sputter in confusion. “My lawyer?” You set your coffee onto the nightstand, rolling over to fully face him. “What for?”

Something in his expression changes, and he sighs, glancing at the stack of papers pouring out of the briefcase beside you and running a hand through his hair. The wild curls you remember are gone, replaced with something more professional looking and masculine. It makes him seem like a stranger.

 

“I won’t sugar coat it, we’re in for one bitch of a case.”

  
“Why? My parents are in prison.” You don’t understand.  
  
“Yeah. You were also distributing a controlled substance without them around, helping them drug everyone in South Park. It doesn’t matter that you were manipulated into it-you’re being charged as an adult for being a participant, willing or not. You’re in deep fucking shit. That’s why I’m here. We’re gonna work together to get you out of it.” He looks at you intensely, watches the color drain from your face as this horror slowly dawns on you. When you take your coffee, you spill it with your shaking.

 

“What’s gonna happen to me?”  
  
“Rehab, first.” He puts a hand on your wrist. You don’t fight him; he’s not your enemy, the anger you’d felt is gone like a flame in the wind, swallowed by ever-familiar fear, fear, fear. “After that, a lot of court. But don’t worry, okay? My entire job is to make sure this goes as smoothly as possible. You’re not going to be doing this on your own. You need to focus on recovering.” as if you can do anything of the sort now.

 

“We’re gonna figure this out. Keep your head on your shoulders, stay with me, listen to me, tell me the truth about everything I ask you. This is a case of severe abuse. That’s how we’re going to handle it, because that’s what it is.” He forces you by the shoulders to look him in the eye-it helps. You blink, nod vigorously. “We’re going to be getting pretty chummy, so try and stay patient with me. Have you had a therapist before?”  
  
You shake your head, mutely.  
  
“Okay, I’m going to arrange with the hospital an appointment for you. Be honest about if you like them or not, it may take a few visits to decide. If you don’t like them, then we’ll get you swapped out with someone else.” He’s took control of the situation as soon as he enlightened you of it, and you couldn’t be gladder. You could use someone in your corner that knew what you were doing. You lean back into the covers, yanking them up your skinny little frame. He takes the hint and moves to exit, leaving a business card on your nightstand.

  
“In case you need anything.” He hovers in the doorway. “Take care, Tweek.”

 

“Yeah.” You turn your back on him, and as soon as you hear the door click, you burst into tears. This godforsaken world isn’t ever going to cut you a break, is it?

 

\- - -

 

Things move in a blur, for a while.

 

You move from the hospital to rehab once you’ve stabled out. It’s a quiet place, calm, away from the rest of the entire screaming world. You watch videos and psas on the dangers of addiction as you sulk through hallways like a ghost, brood silently during group meetings, sensitive and bristling at the first word anyone says to you. You’re not particularly inclined to share your story. The people here are worse off than you are.

 

“Tweek Tweak? Ha, no wonder you ended up here, with a name like that. You’re a self fulfilling prophecy.” Another boy tells you, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, smile too casual, like Kenny’s. He can’t be more than fifteen.

 

You sleep in as much as you can. They don’t let you get away with not eating-your ‘accountabilibuddy’ slash roommate brings your plates into the room for you and lets the staff know if you leave it untouched on your nightstand, so you force yourself to sit up and scarf it reluctantly each time. You put on a little weight after the first few weeks this way.

 

The therapist Kyle set you up with is pleased by this. Kyle himself’s swung by a few times, drilling you with questions in preparation for your trial.

 

Thinking about it fills you with dread. It makes you never want to recover and leave.

 

“Hey, Tweaker, you’re on tv.” The boy gets your attention one day, waving you over to the television. You still don’t talk in groups, but you’ve taken to sitting next to him during the meetings anyway. You bring your tired eyes to the screen.

 

“ _-He’s not going to jail. Not if I have anything to say about it.”_ Your skinny, boney body flashes across the screen, passed out on the floor of the shop. How they found you. You wonder who it was that made the discovery.

Your new friend shoots a look at you. Your mouth is drawn into a thin line.

The screen flashes to a determined looking Mysterion.

_“Mysterion, you’re defending a criminal. He knowingly helped drug the entire town. Are you supportive of these actions?”_

_“Supportive? Christ, of course not. I’m saying the people responsible are behind bars already, and an abused kid being forced to do things against his will deserves nothing but love and support right now, not to be traumatized further.”_ He scowls at the camera.

“ _The justice system doesn’t pay any attention to its victims-it just wants somebody to blame. I’m stepping in because it’s wrong. It’s not justice or right to throw people into prison instead of helping them. Everyone in South Park knows Tweek, and now we all know how long this has been going on, and how badly it’s affected him. He’s been punished enough.”_ “

“Turn it off.”  
You can’t stand the way those blue eyes seem fixated on you.

No one makes a move for the television. Your voice rises to a screech. “Turn it off! Right now!”

 

Your friend grabs the remote and the screen of the television goes dark. You sink into the couch, shivering under the blanket draped over your shoulders, staring into your mug of hot chocolate.

“Uh, Tweaker, you okay? Chill out.” He slides away from you, down the couch, concerned. You want to cry, but you lift your head and force yourself to look at him.

“I just want this to stop. I don’t want this to be happening to me anymore, I-I, I just, I want it--I want to turn it off in real life, I don’t want it, I don’t want it.” Your lip quivers and you have to break eye contact. You wish you weren’t so fucking fragile.

 

“Oh. Dude, come on, at least someone’s defending you.” He clearly has no idea how to respond to your sudden tears. He sighs, runs a hand through his hair, then scoots over to take your elbow and stand you up. “Get up, buddy.”  
  
He leads you back to your room, and you let the waterworks come when he sets you on the bed and leaves you be. You are so tired.

 

\- - -

 

“Rise and shine, you’ve got a visitor.” Broflovski’s voice, loud and commanding, echos into your room, making your roommate stir in his bed and you groan. “Tell them to fuck off.” Someone chuckles. You look up, and nearly jump out of your skin.

 

“Y...you brought Mysterion? You _know_ him?” You had a suspicion of who Mysterion’s identity was, but it’s jarring to have it confirmed. There is no way Mysterion and Kyle would know each other if Mysterion wasn’t Kenny. The vigilante pierces you with those startling baby blues.

 

“Good to see you’re doing a little better. Have they been treating you well?” His tone is gentle and concerned, and your emotions go haywire. You’re not sure if you’re mad he pities you or not. “Uh, yeah.”

 

“Cool.” He looks away first. Your heart does a flip-flop. To think, _he'd_ be the one to suddenly get bashful around _you_.

Kyle glances at your fingers wringing together, then back to Mysterion, one eyebrow arching-a look that says he knows too much.

 

“So, a couple of things have happened since we last talked.” He starts, running a hand through his curls, just starting to grow too long again for his undercut. He looks more like himself this time. “Mysterion’s fighting with the police station to keep you out of jail. I was going to suggest we get you a reduced sentence, shooting for at _least_ ten years-optimistically-but he doesn’t want you to be going at all.” His eyes flicker to Mysterion again; uncertain, certainly displeased, but trusting.

 

“I saw it on TV. Thanks for, y’know, not calling or something.” You grumble. Shouldn’t you be the first one to know what’s going on if all this bullshit is about you? “I don’t want this to--to drag on longer than it needs to. I don’t want it to be some kind of publicity stunt, or make me into some kind of hero, or get me any attention, I don’t want this to be a big deal! I want to go _home_."

 

Mysterion’s sympathetic tone becomes serious, gazing at you from the dark shadows of the hood encasing his face. “It’s too late for that. You’re all over the place. Have you checked any of your social media?”  
  
You balk at the thought. “Fuck no. That’s the last thing I need to stress me out right now.”

“Good, because your Facebook is an absolute shitshow.”

“That makes me want to be even _more_ less involved!”

“More or less involved?” Kyle pipes up. You glare at him.  
“You know what I mean.”  
Mysterion considers you both a second. “Kyle, can I get a second with Tweek?” He doesn’t argue, just slides out of the room with uncharacteristic obedience.

You’re alone with Mysterion now, and squirm uncomfortably.  
“Kenny, don’t ruin your public image for my sake.”

He looks taken aback. Then he pulls the hood down. “Who told you my identity?”

“Who else would be wearing their underwear outside of their leggings?”

“Touche.”

 

You kind of wish he’d put the hood back on. His face is like the sun; so alluring one couldn’t look at him too long. “I don’t care what happens to me.”

 

He stares, a long time.

“Don’t you have any plans, Tweek?”

“No.”  
“College, relatives, dream vacations, books to write, hidden talents, someone else. None of that?”  
“Nothing.”  
“Why?”

“Because. I can’t do it. Isn’t it obvious? I can’t fucking handle anything like that. I can’t handle anything at all.”

“Then what are you living for?” He drops the question so casually-you just stare at him. “There’s more to life than surviving.”

“Is there?” It’s never felt like it.

“Yes, Tweek.” His eyes are soft. He takes your hands in both of his gloves, squeezes. “You have to have things you feel strongly enough about that you’re willing to live for them. You need those passions. That’s how you stop surviving, and you start living.”

“I don’t have anything like that.”

“Then we’ll find something.” He takes your face in his hands, running his thumbs over your cheeks. You lean into them. Tears, ever present, gather on your lashes.

He kisses your eyelids tenderly, trails his lips over the scattering of freckles on your nose. You lean into him, swaying, silent. You don’t blubber-cry like you usually do; two steady lines streak down your face until they are swept away by his thumbs.

 

After coating your face in kisses, he takes a few steps back and opens his arms to you, and you barrel into them. He’s so thin that when your arms encircle his spine, they lay parallel. You squeeze him to you almost too hard, eyes closing, having to stand on tiptoes in order to rest your cheek against his chest. You can hear his heart-there’s an oddly long stretch of silence between beats, almost concerningly so. Your breath evens out and falls in time with it as you listen and he runs calming fingers through your hair.

“I’m scared.”

“I know.”

“I’ve never had a life outside of the shop, Ken…I don’t know what that is. I don’t know, I don’t know-I can’t pay for school, I have zero fucking idea of what to do from here. I don’t think I can do it. I’ve lived like this for so long because I just-there was no alternative and I’m so maladjusted, I don’t know how to function outside of this.” Years of anxiety bubble up into nonsensical rambling-he just rubs your back, taking it all in stride.

 

You realize, at this moment, that you love him.

 

“You should have had a better life. And from now on, I’m going to do whatever it takes to make sure it gets better, and it stays that way. I know you’re terrified. I know. But I promise, whatever happens, it’s going to be okay.” He sways with you in his arms, back and forth, humming low and deep in his chest. Your fingers trail up his back, over his shoulders, until they cup his cheeks, thumbs rubbing under his heavily bagged eyes. You stare into their icy blue. He blinks down at you, one hand moving up to curl over your own. You’re choked with emotion.

 

You want to tell him you love him, that there’s nothing you could ever do to repay him for what he’s taken upon himself to do for you, but what you actually say is none of those things. “Don’t let me fall,” You whisper, tears hot and ever-present.

 

“I won’t.” He coos back, and you believe him.

 

\- - -

 

It’s the Blacks who end up stuck with you once you’re out of rehab, apparently happy to refill their empty nest with Token off studying. You’re awkward and don’t know how to act around them; there is only so many times you can gush about how grateful you are. But they don’t seem to mind. They’re sweet people, and have always been nice to you when you’ve spent many a night over.

Mrs. Black sat down with you when you first moved in, and helped you put together a plan for the future-job, an apartment of your own, community college, medication and therapy for the long term, things she tells you are well within your reach and not the unachievable goals reserved only for your more self-sustaining friends. You are capable, she insisted sternly, just take it one step at a time.

 

The guys eventually have to split up and depart again, but getting back in frequent contact helps. Token has no qualms about immediately accepting you as part of his household, and visits often, checking on you and wasting nights at your side playing long rounds of Call of Duty or Overwatch or Fortnite, keeping you laughing and well-stocked with snacks. You schedule all of your daily meals down to the minute, and eventually, you stop jumping in surprise at the sound of your alarms, learn to adjust, and you start putting on weight.

 

You still don’t know what you’re going to do. For now, you’re working at City Wok, and sometime in the future, Butters has agreed to room with you. He even has rough ideas of a bakery you two could run together.

 

It’s taking time, and work, and the mechanisms of your new life are still completely alien to you, but you’re coping, and for the first time in a long time, you feel pretty good about it. Your therapist practically sings your praises.

 

Mysterion and Kyle end up in a long and angry legal battle; it looked grim from the beginning, but Mysterion hasn’t relented. The standoff has taken its toll on both of them, and you can see it when Kenny comes in for his shifts; exhaustion written on his features, slumping his shoulders further while he toils away at the dishwasher. But he always manages to joke with you during your shifts, get you cracking up and snorting and playfully shoving him, and it feels good.

 

“Can’t wait for you and Butters to get that apartment. That’s two blonde cuties in one place.” He winks, and you elbow him as if you aren’t hopelessly excited by the thought of Kenny visiting you.  
“Maybe you could room with us.” You suggest, but he shakes his head with a sad smile. “I have to stick around for Karen. Maybe when she’s out of high school. But you bet your adorable perky ass I’m gonna be visiting so often that you’re going to want to eat your words and take back that offer.”  
He pats said ass on the way out the door that day, irresistibly flirtatious as ever.

 

He also keeps you updated on the news; through some miracle, he’s managed to keep the police away from you and the media’s focus on him, and you couldn’t be more grateful. He has high hopes the police are going to cave and drop the case. Kyle, too, comes in to check on your progress and reaffirm this.

 

“They’re getting pretty sick of arguing by now. I’ll be honest, T-I had no fucking clue how he was planning on pulling it off, but it’s working. If we keep this up you’re going to be let completely off the hook, as long as you keep doing what you’re doing with your therapy. I’m still writing up the exacts on what we want, but-oof-” He’s cut off by your sudden and aggressively strong hug, and awkwardly pats your back, smiling.

 

As you sit on your floor, surrounded by mock ups and rough drafts of the floor plan for you and Butters’ future cafe, you gaze at your hands-mottled with scars and bite marks, paper-thin, skeletal-and it seems like you hold the world in them.

 

Like despite everything, you really are going to be okay. These hands are the ones steering your destiny now. Not your parent’s, not anyone else-just you. The responsibility of staying alive is no longer as daunting as it was in the beginning.

 

The same hands, the same body, the same person, but new feelings, new experiences, new life. You stare at them and recall everything they’ve done to get you here-and you are proud.


End file.
